


extreme pollen warning

by deadlybride



Series: zmediaoutlet [27]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Era, Established Relationship, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23535631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Dean fumbles a random object in a magic room; it's a tale as old as time.
Relationships: Dean Winchester/Sam Winchester
Series: zmediaoutlet [27]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/587392
Comments: 44
Kudos: 222





	extreme pollen warning

**Author's Note:**

> sorta-not really inspired by a tumblr person asking for sex pollen fics; mostly inspired by my need for more silly sex curses involving established relationships.

Dean’s trying to be careful—he really is, no matter what kind of face Sam might aim his way when he insists. It’s just not his fault that this goddamn weirdo of a would-be wizard has the worst organization since Sam at age fourteen, and it’s _really_ not Dean’s fault that when he edges a big zebrawood chest off the high shelf of this wardrobe, being careful as hell, the damn thing bursts open in his hands.

"Son of a bitch!" he gets out, through the explosion of—what? Silk handkerchiefs, and who knows what kind of herbs—Sam, probably—and the rattle of, ugh, bones he doesn't want to investigate more, and through it all a weird kind of haze that drifts over his eyes and makes him sneeze once, and then twice, and then he coughs and tastes honey in the back of his throat and when he wipes a hand over his face it feels—and he takes a deep breath and the haze in the air doesn't look like dust-sparkling-in-sunlight, like the rest of the sunny afternoon streaming in the grimy windows has, but instead something… physical, something _here_ , and he says, again, with more feeling: "Son of a _bitch_ ," just as Sam crashes into the room and says, "Dean?" before giving him, yes, the friggin' face.

*

Worst part at first is that he knows immediately that he can't drive. Second worst part, Sam asking him the twenty questions, like he has any damn idea about the answers. He stands on the sagging porch in the clear woodsy air, gulping fresh tree smells and the faint rankness of the molding pine, and the haze settles heavy in his vision: everything faintly gold-tinged, fuzzy at the corners, like an old shitty photo. His reactions are sluggish too, except when Sam comes up beside him with the box full of evidence tucked under his arm, and Dean grabs his elbow in shock like, if he says so himself, a striking snake, and feels Sam start, all nine feet of him. "Dude," Dean says, complaining weakly. About what, he doesn't know. Take a number.

"Come on," Sam says, and does him the service of at least pretending to sound compassionate while he sticks his hand in Dean's front pocket and steals the keys. In the car, then, and the passenger seat making the world seem weird and wrong-way-round like it always does, and the sensation of the world bleeding away around the edges makes him nauseated enough that he closes his eyes and just listens to the engine instead. Yeah, better. The rumble, and the tires working their way steadily over the bumpy woods path and then onto clean smooth asphalt, rolling easy, the car responding like she should even if the wrong hands are on the wheel.

Their place during this whole thing—chasing Mr. Wizard, and killing him, and investigating whatever other weird experiments he'd had going on besides a cougar-woman hybrid that was, frankly, terrifying to kill—has been another cabin, closer to town but private enough, and it's got a king bed and a porch to watch the sun set over the lake and a minifridge full of beer. Dean's grateful for the last part, fumbling his way across the wood floor as he strips off his jacket, too hot. "Dean," Sam says, and Dean opens his eyes to find himself sitting on the floor in the kitchenette, shoulders pressed against the cool plastic face of the fridge, and he doesn't—remember, getting here, but it's nice anyway.

"Dean," Sam says, closer, and smiling kind of—Sammy smiling, that's nice, that doesn't happen enough in Dean's book—and he's clear, clear even though the rest of the world is really just fuzz, the planes of his face vivid, that curl that always pops up under his ear in perfect detail. Dean reaches out a hand and tweaks it between two fingers, his breathing feeling weird. "Dude, you're a mess."

"Yeah," Dean says, agreeing pointlessly, and Sam says, "Have you been listening, at all?"

Dean snorts. "Obviously," he says, and Sam hears it for the lie it is and rolls his eyes, and then says, "Okay, give me your hands," and Dean puts them on Sam's face, rubbing his thumbs along Sam's cheekbones. Sam blinks at him and the smile that time is—oh, different. Better. His face, yeah. Yeah. Sam takes his wrists—soft, like Sam isn't sometimes—and says, "Yeah, buddy, that's it—come here," and stands up, and Dean rises up with him without any apparent decision making from his brain.

His brain. He breathes in, smells Sam. Salt and the sweat from the day, and their Alpine Fresh laundry detergent, and the Old Spice in his pits, and he says, carefully, "I got hit with something, huh?" and Sam half-laughs and says, "Got it in one, man," and then says, "Hey, Dean."

Big hand on Dean's jaw. He leans into it, feels like all his body-weight's there. "Sam," he says, the only natural response, and Sam touches his waist, holds him steady. "Oh, man, you're wasted," he says, distant somehow, and then he thumbs under Dean's lip and leans close, close enough that his face is all Dean can—needs—wants to see. "Tell me who I am."

Dean blinks, holds onto Sam's shirt. "Sammy," he says, wanting to be right. Knows he is.

"Yeah," Sam says, encouraging. "And what else am I?"

"My brother." Dean ducks in, smells Sam closer. The hollow of his throat, fuck. Who knew it smelled so good. "My…" he starts, but there's not—the words don't fit, that should go there. There isn't one. Sam should come up with one. He's smart. God, he smells good, and Dean's—hot, so hot, and he can hear his heart beating hard in his ears.

"Yeah, that's right," Sam says, low, and cups a hand around the back of his head. "Man, you are gone. Okay. Just—if you can understand me," he says, and Dean presses his face into Sam's throat, presses himself closer, and hears Sam's breath hitch—"Shit—Dean, it's going to be okay, all right? I think—I'm like ninety percent that it's not fatal, but it's going to last a while, and—oh, fuck it, come here—"

It blurs, and it doesn't. Afternoon still, and the light pouring through the room, and the heat of it. Dean's naked, spread on the bed, and he's not sweating but Sam is, and Sam's skin—that's clear, every mole, the freckle just behind his ear that Dean's always loved and is so often covered up by that mess of hair. Dean cups his hands around Sam's jaw, holds him there for Dean to look at, because he's clear in every particular: his eyelashes and his lips, and the tucked-in dent of dimple when Dean says—something—and Sam laughs at him, and Dean becomes aware only after taking in Sam's face that Sam's fucking him, surging deep with Dean's thighs slung loose and useless around his hips, slow, good. He arches his back, shoving down on the pressure inside, and Sam's eyes close—but no, no. "Look," Dean says, stupid, and Sam doesn't but he does put his face there beside Dean's face, their cheeks pressed together and Sam's ear pink and clear in Dean's vision, and he hauls Dean's legs up on his forearms and crushes deep—deeper—and Dean gulps air and touches the sweat on Sam's back because, oh, there. Sam, Sam, every part of him something Dean loves.

He pushes—uncoordinated—and Sam lifts up, concerned eyebrows, and Dean pushes and Sam lands on his back—and his hands, his hands. Golden light and golden hands and the grip of them, the taste—Dean pushes his tongue against the ridge of nail, the bed of it, salt, the fingerprint pressing into the inside of his cheek. "Jesus," Sam says, somewhere, but there's his ribcage and his chin, and his dick rising high above his hips, wet already—how?—but Dean takes it in his mouth either way, ignoring Sam's gasping protest of—"Wait—wait, Dean, I already—" but it's so— _solid_ , and the weight of it right, right, and he sinks down and down and feels it push into his throat and Sam's thighs spasm around him and he says high-up _holy shit_ and Dean presses his forehead against Sam's belly and his nose into Sam's pubes and he feels—right, right again, the pain distant, his lungs giving up—and then—no—

Sam's hands on his face, patting it, holding his throat. "You okay?" he says, red-faced, and Dean doesn't know why, or why his chest is heaving like it is.

"Sam," Dean says, dumb, and blinks because his eyes don't want to work—wet falling down his cheeks and even Sam sparking strange in his vision. He gapes, empty. "I—I need—"

"Okay," Sam says, nodding, and Dean's drawn up to his mouth and fed kisses and takes them, so grateful, Sam's tongue and his lips, his breath filling Dean's mouth when Dean can't seem to get the air himself—and Sam says, the strangest note in his voice, "Fuck, you're not even hard," his fingers slipping around where Dean's dick hangs useless from his hips—but that doesn't matter, doesn't matter, and Dean reaches behind himself and grasps, whining, and Sam knows, Sam knows, and he says, "Yeah—fuck, yeah, I've got you, it's okay," and that pressure, big and blunt and threatening and then the, yes, press in, and Dean feels like his lungs work again, and he wraps his hand into Sam's hair and keeps his face there for Dean to see, to take in, and Sam blinks at him and licks his own open mouth and shoves his hips up, hard, and Dean rocks with it, takes it, because—god—Sam, Sam, Sam.

*

Dean wakes up dry-mouthed, aching. His asshole hurts and when he swallows his throat's raw. "What," he whispers, and Sam's there, immediately, with a glass of water that Dean gulps down.

"How're your eyes?" Sam says, taking the glass away.

Dean blinks. Sam's all he can see at first—bare chest and shoulders, bite—bitemarks?—all over, and a, jesus, hickey blooming up on the base of his throat. The rest of the room's… there, in a nighttime way, but he still can't see the edges. "Not fixed," he says, rough. Yikes.

A nod and a corner of Sam's mouth turning up. "Figured," he says. "Still got a ways to go."

Dean drags a hand over his face. Aspirin wouldn't go amiss. "What is it?" he says. "I feel like a—skanky prom date."

Sam snorts. "I think the only kind of prom date you'd be is one from a porno," he says, dry. He shrugs one shoulder. He is still naked, Dean realizes, and Dean is too. The sheets are tugged away, though, and a clean blanket's under Dean's ass. "It's a love spell."

Dean pauses in his struggling to sit up, like an adult. "A love spell."

Another shrug, and this time the one-sided smile looks a little smug. "I mean, more or less. Spellwork, as far as I can tell from his notes. Trying to get a fair maiden to want him."

"Is that right." Dean lets his head thunk back against the headboard. He's never living this down.

"Pretty standard stuff for unscrupulous witches," Sam says, and his smile goes more natural. "Figure it must not be having the same effect, if the feeling's already there."

Dean licks his lips. They're sore, too. Sam looks at him steady for a few seconds, and then stands up and goes to the kitchenette to fill Dean's water glass again. His ass looks good, in the lamplight. "Anyway," Sam says, half over his shoulder. "I figure we can probably work out the worst of it here, and we can start heading back to the bunker in the morning. There'll be something there to break it, and if all else fails—maybe Cas will know what to do."

Cas. Well, there's a nightmare Dean didn't need. His chest feels warm, his fingers itching. He licks his lips again, slides his thighs together. Slick. Sam leans against the sink, too many yards away, watching him with eyes that should be hard to see from here but Dean can, Dean can see every detail, and his whole body's tingling for it. "Worse ways for a job to finish up, I guess," he says, while he's still halfway coherent, and Sam laughs.

"Yeah, I can think of a few," he says, and comes back to the bed, and his skin touches Dean's skin, and that's all Dean needs, for the rest of the night.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](https://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/614781688272257024/have-u-got-any-recs-yours-or-other-peeps-of-sex)


End file.
